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Flash Fiction Competition Results

The Flash Fiction Competition results were announced on Saturday 17th January 2015 in Nottingham Castle.

Judges Paula Rawsthorne and Graham Lester George selected Prime Candidate by Alex Brogan to be the overall winning story. Ghosts in Bromley House Library by Debbie Moss, and From Corkscrew To Cockcrow by Andy Szpuk were joint Runners-up.

Prime Candidate

2’, one hundred and twenty seconds in, hip-flask comfort, abused. The electrified Torville and Dean skates towards Nottingham, synapses jangling at The Forest, around me fresh lip-stick, perfumed pheromones and tattooed testosterone. The night-economy, flexing wallets and purses, looser from pre-loading. High jinks and an evening of intimacy, who’s the joker in the pack? I sense that my Obsessive Compulsive In-Order with prime numbers is better than avoiding crack.

3’, at High School, backdrop both ways, state money closes on the under-world of pay-as-you-go booze and sex. The metronomic counterpoint. Methinks yes, bracing, lurching towards the descent into abject comfort and oblivion, Bendigo, boxing clever, even though David Herbert is an alumni, I assume the mantle of Mellors.

5’, had a place at this fine palace of academic learning, the northbound inverse, Robin Hood, almost full, national minimum wagers and fading retail therapy addicts, bleary-eyed, making their way home to soft furnishings in Maslow’s Hierarchy of futility. The state has already robbed them. ‘Next stop the Royal Centre’. An annoying voice splatters all over Bolero, ‘With links to SkyLink’, fuck me baby I am already doing the triple-salco.

47’, got my bad sagging ass up to the ‘Ye Old Trip to American Support’, just pointed at the ‘Rocket Juice’ pump. Overlook Hotel reminded me of an overturned tri-cycle and a missed, overbearing, barren ex-wife. Considering the atrocities in Gaza, I temporarily forgave myself, walked, after many drinks, incidental talk, again.

149’, back into town, assumed a solitary booth, in the ‘Lost and Found’. M1 legs move over my recumbent carcass, hearing, ‘I am not here’, the person hides behind my considerable bulk. As the fracas dies down I glimpse fantastic laddered legs that make me forget about snakes. Tall women appeal to me, my joker has landed. We imbibe, converse, pupils dilate, brush of hands, oh to touch another human being. We laugh and cry about the absurdity of our condition, needing fresh air we depart into the Old Market Place.

239’, we sit, shoulders touching, I tickle her knee, a minute later bells sound to differentiate the Jewish Sabbath from the Christian Expectation. She says as the last peel reverberates over downtown, ‘Fancy a Coffee’. We traipse up to Lloyd Coles’ basement flat, a mere 373 yards away. I am in!!. Bollocks to the kettle.

661’, endless talk, vodka, snow, political correctness, my five o’clock in the morning shadow eased with my own dribble.

683’, in bed, after interminable foreplay I close in on the King Street/Queen Street vaginal confluence, legs akimbo, anticipation abounds, wrong gender! Bollocks.

719’, auricular tricks, despite my limited understanding of prime numbers, I am pronounced dead at 7.59 am on Sunday 37th Julember 2014. ‘Cause of death – Lifestyle Choice, a Prime Candidate, Wrong Date, Right Time’. An ethereal thought, it would take more than the great General William Booth to deploy every rank of the Salvation Army. Shit my 11th life just ended.

720’, I spiritually depart QMC, this great city, lace christening garment, second-hand Raleigh bike, sandstone caves, 11 plus, 17 driving lessons, the river coursing through my now collapsed veins and arteries and looking down at Trent Bridge, ‘Ashes to Ashes’.

FROM CORKSCREW TO COCKCROW

A barman takes orders, rows of glasses stand stoutly, perusing the pandemoniumThe polished bar gleams from sturdy efforts of the cleaner, scent of ammoniaScrubbed up Sunshine takes a bus into town, to walk among fellow enthusiastsA search is on for heavenly bodies, preceded by the steady flow from a pint glass

Takeaway neon echoes serve up slices of sparkling light on to Slab SquareAromas blending, cigarette smoke weaving and wending, toxic as Tony BlairTrams glide along rails at the side of the fountain, the skyline smouldersCitizens sit together, take a drink or two, brush off chips on shoulders

Tourists, students and locals pose for a photo with Brian Clough, statue of a legendSunshine enjoys a clear night sky, looking for his own elusive happy endingChattering over the clattering of beer trays, where hopes and drinks get spilledSunshine casts his eye over the company. On nights like this, dreams get killed

The honking horn of a taxi, the cackle of hen parties, hunted high and low by stagsA bus door hisses, concertina movement, a symphony of stiletto, elegant straggleShort sleeved shirts gather together, whatever the weather, it's a hot nightFrom a pigeon's perspective, the scenes on the streets below are regular sights

Liquid refreshment loosens tight lipped tension, Sunshine holds on to his intentionA sea of eyes, drowned by disco diva disguises, faces painted for fascinationSunshine drops ice cubes into a long glass, a depth charge to fire up his voiceHe asks for a dance, the first shaky steps towards romance, egged on by the boys

Mobile phones vibrate, a cacophony of ring tones, texts herald a grand arrivalSwooping down, birds flutter, but Sunshine is all hers, underneath the mirror ballHe finds an empty table, their dance becomes a twisting tango of tonguesStories of his decorating prowess are told, to impress, of wallpaper well hung

An exotic bird borne of some natural grace, this time Sunshine is left seatedAs she excuses herself, maybe to powder or put on lippy, the chance has retreatedThe music becomes background, Sunshine left to ponder on failure and rejectionBut the brooding is only brief, back with the boys, he takes heart, finds resurrection

He remembers her face like a photograph, coal black hair, Skeggy blue eyesIt's never over he decides, not until the darkness has died. Not until the next sunriseAt the night club, the doorman never smiles, so when it's time to eject the unrulyHe can do so without feeling guilty, in the style of Conservative austerity

Maybe Sunshine'll see her there, he's smitten, he knows it, hopes he hasn't blown itIt's after midnight, the beer is still slipping down smoothly, maybe the bird has flown?At the last dance, he digs out those coal black curls, goes over, she says yesTheir bodies conspire to admire each other's curves, she gives him a slow kiss

The speakers hurl out a last beat, together they walk outside. A half moon smilesSlab Square, a magic carpet, buskers still strumming guitars, they walk for milesTogether, away from the city, perfect for romantic endeavours, he's a floating featherNight buses pass, revellers returning home, the end of the night, a seed of forever

Sunshine walks her home, around them city sleeping, oblivion beneath closed eyes'Ring me' she whispers, closing the door, he's alone with his own emerging sunriseHe lifts up his head to take the sun's kiss, holds his phone, gazes at her numberIt's tomorrow already, so he plans to call her later, when she's woken from slumber

His every step down the street, in the stark light, becomes the city's heartbeatAlong Trent Bridge, he savours the moment, the river shimmers, the cool air sweetStreet lamps glow golden, his spirits are emboldened by a sense of true belongingA night that can never be forgotten, his narrative rewritten, a new dawn beckoning

Ghosts in the Bromley House Library

Saturday, eight hours since glints of sunlight crossed a brass meridianA polished line in a small room on the first floor Only lights flickering in the Market Square Seep in through small panes and shine on worn oakLawrence sails passed shelves of sleeping poetsInky hands wrapped round a jarModernity’s tongue spills out smearing the glass‘The poetry inside’ says Lawrence nudgingByron treading the creaking twisted stairsByron whines and whispers to Lawrence ‘New ways are only greatest for those already great.’

Sillitoe leans against the cracked window and coughsHe is listening to the Mouthy Poets Say Sum Thin in the SquareCome you two, there’s something here for those like us who perhaps knew Old ways can change and lives made better With words which must be spokenFor young lives which have been broken And the poets listened for hours To women witness to the words’ powerThen when the mouths had left theThe poets drifted back to their shelves, and jammed new words untilFour hours from solar noon, and for the sun to cross that brass But today is Sunday and only the ghosts will see it pass.

Thank You!

The Nottingham Festival of Words is over this year. We welcomed Ali Smith, Will Self, Bernadine Evaristo, Daljit Nagra, Maurice Riordan, Sujata Bhatt, Jon McGregor, Dev Dutt Joshi … and you! To get a flavour of what it was like, see the video below. Rest assured we will be back in October 2015.